by David Dwan
“What if it didn’t?” Ross asked him.
Hauser dismissed this with a wave of the hand. “It is possible to preserve the body, if you’re quick. But that one? No, I bet it turned to shit within a day.” He said refilling his glass and still not offering any to Ross.
“It’s still alive, according to Father Mendez, and Michael Davis of course.”
Hauser stopped all of a sudden with the glass half way to his lips. “What?”
“The thing, the creature, it’s still alive, that’s why I’m here.”
“Bullshit,” Hauser carefully put the glass, un-drunk back onto the table. “That’s not possible,”
Ross thought he caught a hint of fear now in the old man’s voice. “It’s all over the internet,” he said.
Yes a flash of fear crossed his eyes. “No, something like that withers and dies,” Hauser insisted. “They’re not meant to last more than a few hours afterwards. Whether they are successful, or like this one, if they are stopped before they can complete the task for which they were created. They are only really created for one specific job, that’s their whole reason for existence.”
“I don’t think this one got the memo,” Ross told him. He took the laptop and opened up the media player.
“No,” Hauser shook his head with a frown and looking troubled he picked up his wine and downed it in one with all the ease of a seasoned drinker. “Can’t be,” he said to the empty grass.
“Let me show you,” Ross selected a preloaded video file. “Ever heard of demon time?”
“Demon what?” Hauser watched as Ross readied the laptop, his eyes narrowed with anticipation.
“Demon time, it’s an internet reality show and its getting more popular by the day. A priest volunteers to go into a house which has a ‘so called’ real demon in it. Their task is to try to exorcize the thing before it can half kill them or drive them to insanity and out of the house, whichever comes first. The producer is Michael Davis. And its star is your demon.”
The old man drummed his fingers nervously against his glass and for a moment Ross thought it might shatter. “Not my demon,” he said without looking at the priest. “It was meant for that sleaze ball, Davis. All I did was trap it.”
“Why didn’t you just destroy the thing when you had the chance?” Ross asked him.
“A shit load of cash,” the German replied.
“So Davis did pay you for the creature, after you saved him?”
Hauser shrugged. “Who am I to refuse a fool’s money?” He replied. “Come to think of it, I should have charged the bastard for catching it in the first place. Y’know like Ghostbusters?” Hauser shook his head and smiled to himself.
“People have nearly died.” Ross told him.
“People die every damn day, that’s what they do.” He put the wine glass back down on the table. “Besides, if what you say is true, they have all volunteered?”
“That is true, strictly speaking,” The priest relented.
“And they were all men of God?” He ran his gaze over Father Ross, coming to rest on where his collar once was. “Men like you?”
“Yes,” he replied shifting in his seat somewhat. It sounded more of an accusation than observation.
“Then they would have died in a state of grace.” Hauser said plainly. “I’m sure they said their Hail Mary’s before marching into battle.
“You have to see, this whole thing is an abomination.” Ross said deliberately leaving off saying ‘if it’s true’.
“And like all abominations, it makes great reality TV. I prefer the one where they torture celebrities in the jungle. Have you seen that one? Make them eat bugs and shit? Very popular I believe.”
Ross ignored him and hit play. Hauser eyes were drawn to the gaudy opening title sequence which was a rapid fire edit of the previous shows, which never gave the demon more than a few frames of screen time. Ross watched Hauser’s red rimmed eyes widen and he physically winced as the final shot, a tantalizingly just out of focus freeze frame of Mister Minx itself.
“Look familiar?” Ross let the programme play and angled the screen close to Hauser who subconsciously sat back in his seat a little as if fearful the thing would jump right out and attack him.
“This is so wrong,” Hauser whispered as he watched the highlights of the last episode. And for the first time since Ross had met the man, the bravado drained from him as quickly as he had just drained the wine from his glass.
NINETEEN
The German continued to stare at the screen long after the show had ended and the picture cut to black. His eyes had gradually narrowed as the clip played out and his brow had crumpled like a paper coffee table after a bowling ball had been dropped on it.
“Amazing what you can do with special effects these days,” Ross said after a long moment watching Hauser. “Particularly think it’s clever how you never actually see the thing in any great detail. Keeps up the illusion.”
“That’s no illusion,” Hauser croaked.
“I’ll grant you it’s impressive, but you can’t expect me to believe that thing actually exists?” There was something about Hauser’s reaction that was gnawing at Ross’ certainty and he didn’t like the doubts it was conjuring up.
“Tell you what,” Hauser said after a long pause. “You just keep believing none of this is real and you’ll be better off, trust me.” He poured himself a glass and this time actually filled Ross’. “And stay away from that show.” Hauser added.
Despite his fatigue, Ross gratefully picked up his glass and took a small sip, even if just to take the edge off his growing unease. The wine was sweeter than expected and not bad at all for a local batch.
“Madre de Dios!”
Both men turned to see Gabriela and Rosa standing in the open patio doorway. They must have slipped in whilst he and Hauser were watching the show. It was clear by their expressions that both women had seen more than enough.
Rosa moved out onto the balcony but Gabriela stayed in the doorway clutching the lace curtain as if not wanting to get too close to the captured images she had seen.
“It’s okay...” Ross found himself saying apologetically but Rosa cut him off.
“This is true?” Rosa asked Hauser.
At first it seemed Hauser hadn’t heard her, but then he slowly nodded. “Christ knows how, but yes it’s real.”
“Look...” Ross said feeling the overwhelming urge to be the voice of reason, even though he knew it was more to calm his own doubts than theirs.
“No!” Rosa said with a sharp edge of conviction. “Father, you say you do not believe this? Then why are you here? Why have you come such a long way for a... A fiction?”
It was a good question, and one which made Ross’ heart hit his boots. He shook his head unable to answer.
“Rosa, Hauser,” Gabriela said softly from the doorway. She clearly understood the essence of what was being said if not the language. “Muestrale.”
Hauser winced. “No,” he said firmly.
“Sí,” Rosa agreed. “She is right, Hauser. Show him.”
“Christ, Rosa. Don’t you know ignorance is bliss?” Hauser said.
“Show me what?” Ross asked.
The old German let out a long breath through his teeth. He looked first to Rosa then across to Gabriela and his face softened more than Ross thought possible. Gabriela smiled at him and nodded ever so slightly. Ross could see there was nothing but love for the old man in those tear filled eyes.
“La Iglesia,” Gabriela said to Hauser.
The church.
Hauser drained his glass then stiffly got to his feet. “C’mon padre,” he said reluctantly. ““If you are going to have any chance against this thing. You are going to at least believe why it’s real.”
If it hadn’t been for its surroundings, particularly the ill kept graveyard, the church or at least the building which had once served as the village’s sole place of worship would have been very easy to miss.
At fi
rst, as they walked along the waist high stone wall that encircled the cemetery, Ross thought the building at its centre was in fact some kind of funhouse. Although it was still hard to make out any great detail at that distance, and in the gloom between night and dawn, he could just about make out what looked like numerous paintings on the building, just vague shapes and colours from where he was. But it still put him in mind of a funhouse entrance and he wondered absently if it were somehow connected to the festival earlier.
Both men paused by an old wooden archway which marked the entrance to the graveyard. Ross swept the torch he had been given over the ground just beyond and could just about make out an overgrown cobbled path which as far as he could tell ran through the gravestones and up to the large hulking silhouette of a structure at its heart.
Hauser turned on his own torch now and with a forlorn shake of the head set off through the archway and into the cemetery. The German hadn’t said a word since they had set off and had the look of a condemned man making the final walk from his cell to the gallows as he trudged on.
Ross followed on hesitantly a few paces behind and as Hauser’s torch was lighting the pathway ahead the priest let his own pass over the various gravestones as they went. Many were overgrown and had clearly been left to the elements. But a few here and there stood out as being newly cleared of weeds, the stonework scrubbed clean, name plates polished or renewed.
And on occasion as they walked he could see fresh flowers had been placed in ornate vases on some of the newer looking graves. He caught sight of the age of one of the better tended stone crosses near the path. Miguel Torres; May 2004 to September 2013. The poor lad had only been nine years old when he had died. Ross didn’t want to think too hard as to what had taken him so young.
As they approached the dark hulking structure itself Ross turned his torch on it to illuminate those vague shapes and colours he had noticed from the wall. The whole front of the building was covered with a large wooden façade which had been constructed over the entire front facing part of the church as if to deliberately conceal its original purpose.
All the windows were blocked leaving nothing but a thin doorway that masked the usual large thick wooden double doors that most churches of this size have.
Now that they were closer, Ross could make out just why he had first thought this was the frontage for a carnival funhouse. Even in the meagre light offered up by the torch he could make out enough to see it was absolutely covered with a multi-coloured mural. The light picked out many different scenes painted in two dozen or more hands, sometimes two or three on top of each other. Some he could see were painted with great artistic skill, others clearly the work of children.
A donkey’s head poking over a fence, its eyes crooked and too big for its face, and with a smile too human for an animal. Next to this a splash of deep blue filled upon closer inspection with once brightly painted fishes of all shapes and sizes their colours now faded with time.
A sunrise beautifully rendered by an artist of clearly great skill filled with ornately painted birds of all shapes, colours and species. But it was a sky also occupied by a flock of birds whose wings were so mismatched that flight would have been impossible. But still the two wildly different styles complemented one another perfectly.
Everywhere he looked some new revelation came in to view. It was an almost dizzying array of art work and Ross felt like you could study it all night and still only get a flavour of what it contained.
“It was mostly for the kids,” Hauser said from beside him as they reached the heavily padlocked door which was home to a family of painted ducks and what looked to Ross like an odd assortment of farm animals which had been created by a lunatic God. That or painted by a five year old on a sugar rush.
“Therapy, if you like,” Hauser continued. “After what happened they closed the place up tight, tried to forget what it was I guess. They still hold services, just in the square. No iconography and definitely no priest.”
Again with the priests Ross thought.
Hauser tucked his torch under his arm and pulled out an extendable key chain that was attached to his belt. “Gimmie some light, will you?”
Ross tore his gaze away from a particularly disturbing scene of six stick figure children, their simple faces set in unmistakable fright as a large dark shape with yellow eyes loomed over them, and shined his torch onto Hauser’s hands so he could select the desired key.
The German glanced at Ross as he opened the large padlock and looked like he wanted to say something, maybe in way of explanation as to what he would see inside. But then he just mouthed something inaudible and shouldered open the door.
The interior to the church was lighter than Ross had thought it would be. The reason soon became apparent as both men stepped inside. The whole building had been gutted by what must have been a severe fire. The rapidly brightening morning sky could easily be seen through the bare skeletal rafters of what was left of the roof and its meagre light gave some substance to the murky interior.
High to Ross’ right a large blown out stained glass window stretched up towards the ruined roof. It’s formerly ornate imagery now as twisted and blackened as the inside it had once looked down upon.
It put Ross in mind of one of those inner city buildings hit by an incendiary bomb during the blitz. What remained of the pews lay strewn left and right, barely recognisable they were so chard and broken.
“Watch your step,” Hauser cautioned as they made their way down the cluttered aisle. He gestured to the altar at the very end. “There it is,” he said.
Ross shone his torch down to the far end of the devastated church. The altar’s legs had been replaced by half a dozen breeze blocks on either side. And on it lay a large coffin like box approximately eight feet by three feet which as they got closer he could see was made of metal.
Hauser kicked a blackened piece of lumber out of the way so they could get close to the object. “None of this was my idea,” he said as if in way of explanation. “It was like this when I came back here after deciding to call it a day.”
“Looks like some kind of messed up shrine if you ask me,” Ross observed. But a shrine to what?
“That’s exactly what it is. Christ knows why they didn’t just bulldoze the whole site after it happened,” Hauser said.
Both men stopped in front of the altar like two parishioners awaiting communion. “Guess they can’t let go of what happened here,” Hauser continued. “You saw the fiesta and the façade outside. It’s their way of making sure future generations remember it all, I suppose. Superstitious types for sure, but good, good people.”
“Just what did happen here?” Ross asked looking at the ominous box on the altar.
“Look for yourself,” Hauser said and gestured to the box. He glanced around then moved over and sat on one of the few pews that were both upright and intact.
Ross hesitated. “Go on old man,” the German coaxed. “It won’t bite.” His face cracked open in the most devilish grin at that.
“It’s not locked?” Ross said in faint surprise although he wasn’t entirely sure why.
“No need,” Hauser replied.
Ross stepped forwards and grasped the lid of the box. He was surprised at just how light the lid was, this box was made to conceal rather than imprison. He lifted the lid which was hinged at the back and it opened with unexpected ease.
TWENTY
Father Ross’ first thought as he gingerly peered inside the box, was that this was another of the villager’s puppets, as what lay inside was a similar, if more twisted cousin to the one from the square earlier. But as his eyes gradually adjusted to the gloom it became all too clear the thing inside was no piñata.
What he had first took to be a covering of those crepe paper leaves common on a lot of piñatas was in fact on closer inspection a thick covering of dried flowers. Ross could see patches of undeniably organic matter here and there where the flowers had fallen away from the creation.
&nbs
p; Loathed to touch the thing, Ross instead blew the covering of flowers away from the crumpled body. He lifted his torch and shone it down into the box. He instantly repulsed as the thing appeared to move. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” He gasped and just about managed to swallow his hammering heart which had leapt into his mouth, back down to where it belonged. The illusion of movement happened again as his torch beam played over the body once more. It was just shifting shadows caused by the light as it moved over the thing.
Ross cursed under his breath at his own stupidity and waited for his heart to stop racing a little before he continued his reluctant examination of the contents of the box.
Yes, now that he looked closely he could see it was a wizened creature perhaps the size of a large man curled up in a foetal position. But this thing was far from human. Its limbs seemed too long for its emaciated body and stick thin as if they would quite easily snap even under the meagre weight of its torso.
A long crooked spindly arm covered in small black scales was draped across the thing’s withered bestial head as if it were trying to shield itself against the light. Ross peered under the arm which was partially blocking its neck as a flash of greyish white caught his eye.
“It trapped them in here during choir practice,” Hauser said softly from behind him. “Six kids, organist and a couple of parents.”
Ross had to lean over the altar and into the box to get a better look. He held his breath as he could only imagine what a long dead corruption like this would smell like, despite its bed of flowers. He narrowed his eyes and held the torch closer to the thing. What was that on its neck?
“I got here just in time,” Hauser continued, a disembodied voice in the shadows. “Or just too late, depending on who you ask.” There was an unmistakable despondency to his voice as he spoke.
